


Whitehaven Mansions. A personal journal of Captain Arthur Hastings, OBE

by mortifago



Series: The Journals [1]
Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie, Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic, Drabble Collection, Established Relationship, Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-02-15 23:44:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13042008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortifago/pseuds/mortifago
Summary: A collection of short scenes from the life of Poirot and Hastings. Set in unspecified time in the Poirot timeline.





	1. Chapter 1

*******

It is perhaps foolish to indulge in a pursuit such as penning a personal journal, which no eyes other than mine shall ever see. Alas, a curious mixture of strong sentiment, joy, and confusion that I keep experiencing in both my private and professional partnership with Hercule Poirot, directs me to try to put some of my thoughts and experiences on paper. It is by no means an attempt to provide a faithful and detailed account of the likes I write to document Poirot’s ingenious investigations. Rather, my hope is to collect and reflect upon many seemingly insignificant moments that touched me deeply on a personal level, and, perhaps, little by little keep transforming my very self. All of these moments, I underline emphatically, are connected to my relationship to Hercule Poirot – the most magnificent detective and a great man – with whom I am living in the Whitehaven Mansions. 


	2. Chapter 2

***

To not confuse myself and to avoid difficulties with choosing the first moment to write about, I shall simply start with my most recent memory – that of only yesterday evening.

For most of the evening I was seated comfortably on the sofa, nursing a drink, and reading a rather gripping novel – a mystery with a dash of a moving romance. Poirot was at his desk, putting documents pertaining to our most recent case into a perfect order. We were seating in a comfortable silence and I was feeling immensely content and at ease. That is, until I reached the ending of the novel and gasped in astonishment at the resolution. ‘Have you just read the grande finale, mon ami?’ asked Poirot, smiling knowingly, for he had also read that book but a fortnight ago. ‘I say, Hercule! What a finale!’ I exclaimed excitedly. ‘What wit, what strength of character, and what devotion the protagonists had shown!’ Then I sighed and added in a more subdued tone, thoughts turning somewhat melancholic, ‘I wish I were as great a character, truly useful, and good, and worthy of you.’ I could not help a bit of anxiety creeping into my thoughts after reading about two formidable protagonists, both equally clever, interesting, and in the midst of an epic romance. It was only natural that a comparison of our respective situations presented itself and I felt suddenly very small and unsure of my worth as Poirot’s companion. It was therefore with a great surprise that I next heard Poirot’s voice vibrating with anger and emotion. ‘Mon cher ami, how can you say such things about yourself?! Have I not told you firmly enough how truly extraordinary and most wonderful I find you, my dear?’ My breath caught in my throat at hearing his words and I felt a little light-headed. It is true that I heard compliments from my dearest companion on a number of occasions before, but I also could not deceive myself regarding the extent of my worth and abilities. I knew I was no match for my brilliant companion, and I also knew how often I was regarded by people I encountered throughout my life as a pleasant enough but unremarkable and inessential character. I was certainly not an admirable protagonist like the ones in the novel!

My reverie was broken by a sound of soft footsteps on a floor and the next thing I knew Poirot was sitting beside me on the sofa, taking my hands into his. ‘Arthur,’ he said quietly and earnestly. ‘I will never cease to repeat to you, as I started in Styles, that you have the nature most beautiful. Most beautiful indeed! I will always choose you over any number of protagonists who seem to impress you so. Your kind and brave heart is the greatest treasure.’ I felt hypnotized by his words, and it was probably that earnest tone of his, and the truly affectionate look in his eyes that made me think for the first time in my life that perhaps I did have something worthy to offer. Overcome by strong emotion I bowed my head and pressed my face to our joined hands. ‘I will endeavor to be the best I possibly can for you, Hercule. Please don’t tire of me.’ I said a little feebly but with conviction. Poirot, the brilliant man that he is, probably sensed the level of my tumultuous emotions, for instead of saying anything more he simply caressed my cheek and then motioned for me so I could stretch on the sofa and put my head onto his lap. He then gently laid one of his hands on my head and proceeded to caress my hair for a long time into the night. This was with such tenderness and singular focus on _me_ – Good Heavens! – that I felt filled with love stronger and brighter than any silly novel protagonist could ever hope for.


	3. Chapter 3

***

Another poignant memory that I often come back to thinking about happened during Christmas season this winter. I was out and about the whole day, running various errands and hunting for a present for Poirot. In fact, I began preparing for that feat some weeks ago by making discreet enquires with my dear friend. I was quite pleased with myself, as I managed to devise a very sly method of extracting tidbits of information that were likely to give me useful gift ideas. The method was this: each morning during our customary breakfast, I would throw an innocent little question or two, asking Poirot about his youthful memories. Since I was asking equally about the pleasant, the average, and the less pleasant ones, I could be reasonably confident that he would not see through what my ultimate goal was. The goal, obviously, was to learn as much as possible about Poirot’s cherished memories and from there to get my idea for a present that will make him genuinely happy.

Thanks to this orderly and methodical manner of enquiry, which, I was sure, would make Poirot proud of me if he knew what I was doing, I was finally able to identify what I should purchase for him. I learned that in his childhood in Belgium he was particularly fond of a certain brand of chocolate. Nevertheless, that brand was very difficult, or, as Poirot remarked, probably even impossible to obtain in England. Upon hearing this I immediately felt keen to take up the challenge and embarked upon the task. It took considerable time and effort over the next couple of weeks to not only conduct inquiries among people who I hoped might be able to help in my pursuit, but to also keep my activities hidden from my dear Poirot. At long last, my efforts were brought to fruition and on the day when Poirot was preparing the festive dinner for us, I ventured in my Lagonda to pick up the chocolate from a merchant on the outskirts of London.

Alas, even though I was successful in obtaining the desired product, the pouring rain on my way back did irreparable damage to the parcel. In my defense, I must say that I did what I could to protect said parcel by placing it in the inside pocket of my coat. Unfortunately, the forces of nature were so violent that I was quite literally soaked to the skin, along with the chocolate. When I entered our home, dripping wet and somewhat nervous about the mess I was making, I also realized with horror that the chocolate – although still there – lost any aesthetic qualities that made it pleasing to the eye of someone as enamored of order and tidiness as Poirot.

It was then that to my great surprise, when I kept sadly musing over destroyed chocolate and still dripping on the floor from my wet clothes, I suddenly felt a gentle hand on my back and found myself in a warm half-embrace.

‘Hercule!’ I cried horrified. ‘I am all wet! You will sullen your clothes!’

‘Mon cher Arthur, you have been standing here for fifteen minutes at the very least in those cold wet clothes. You must allow me to awaken you from your stupor and help you divest of these garments. You are in danger of catching a cold!’ Poirot said insistently.

I was very touched by his concern for my well-being and smiled weakly, taking off the outer layers. Needless to say, that action exposed the soaked parcel with the chocolate and I saw Poirot’s eyebrows rise in surprise. I felt I had no choice but to try to explain myself and hopefully save the situation a little.

‘You must forgive me,’ I started, ‘I meant for it to be presented to you properly after our dinner, elegantly wrapped and entirely to your liking but since you can see now the disastrous outcome of my outing…’

I was not able to finish this bumbling explanation as Poirot embraced me and kissed on a cheek, completely stopping me in my tracks.

‘Hercule..?’ I asked surprised.

‘Arthur, but this is a gift most thoughtful and wonderful! I am very grateful to you, mon cher. You must also realise that the taste of this delicious chocolate will not be altered by the package getting a little wet. Don’t look so desolate, I pray of you!’ he said.

Greatly relieved by his kind and understanding reaction I allowed myself to sink into the embrace, despite my clothes being decidedly damp and unpleasant. I lowered my head and softly kissed Poirot’s neck, just above the collar. I was rewarded by his contented sigh and a feeling of his warm hands rubbing soothing circles on my back. We stood like that for a long blissful moment, quietly embracing.

‘You really must change your clothes, mon cher,’ Poirot broke the silence finally.

I was very reluctant to go but after a few more comforting pecks on a cheek I relented and went to prepare for the evening of festivities.

…

Later that night, we were sitting in a living room in a warm glow of lights decorating the Christmas tree. I held Poirot’s hand and we were continuing our leisurely conversations from dinner. I felt great contentment when my dear companion decided to help himself to some more morsels of chocolate, remarking on how good it was. I smiled, replying that I was very happy that he liked it, and that I also agreed it was quite delicious. My smile soon turned into a blush, however, when Poirot asked if I wanted to eat some more, and, after my affirmative not, held a morsel straight to my lips! I must confess that never before have I enjoyed chocolate quite as much as I did during those memorable Christmas.


End file.
